


Stage 1: Spotlight

by Teland



Series: Stage [1]
Category: The X-Files, due South
Genre: Chatlogs, Clubbing, M/M, Surreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-07-10
Updated: 1999-07-10
Packaged: 2020-12-21 01:51:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21066809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: Alex steps through.





	Stage 1: Spotlight

Dawn Sharon: Would Ray K. and Alex be able to get   
it on, or would it all be over so quickly we slower   
mortals wouldn't even see it happen?

Te: {HOWLING} I was actually thinking   
about just that pairing today...

Dawn Sharon: {purrpurrpurr} Good. What did you think?

Te: Whose smile would outdazzle the other?

Dawn Sharon: *swoon*

Te: What would they talk about? Is this   
my excuse to put Ray in a club and let him dance?

Dawn Sharon: I wonder if Ray would try to start   
a senseless barroom scuffle? Oh, wait, I remember   
I was once thinking about Ray interrogating Alex...   
wish I knew when and where I put that note.  
Dawn Sharon: And Ray *must* dance.

Te: Nah, don't want 'em to scuffle. I want  
'em to *fuck*.

Dawn Sharon: Alex would know his buttons, where to  
touch to hold him still, where to press hard to make   
him focus his perpetual motion on one object, one   
motion...  
Dawn Sharon: I think they would stop fighting the   
moment skin touched skin.  
Dawn Sharon: But I'm happy to hear how they might  
meet peaceably.

Te: *Silky* thinks Ray  
*So hard* thinks Alex

Dawn Sharon: I can hear my heart beating in my ears...

Te: I don't have to give them a *setting*, do I?

Dawn Sharon: No, ma'am. As far as I'm concerned   
they can meet up in limbo.

Te: Maybe just a little setting. You know,   
one of those rough brushstrokes of being that wipes   
the nothing away?

Dawn Sharon: (seeing japanese painting: one blade of   
grass defines the world.)

Te: A brushstroke on a crumbling brick   
wall, Dawn Sharon. Because this is an Alex story and I  
will not be accused of not knowing my roots. {g}

Dawn Sharon: I didn't, did I? {submissive gestures}

Te: (play along, I'm playing at storyteller. {g})

Dawn Sharon: You know your roots.  
Dawn Sharon: Tell me more, teller.

Te: It's night, and it's cold and dry. However,  
being as how this is Chicago, Alex knows full well that   
the dryness won't last long. 

When he looks up at the ring around the moon what   
little setting we have instantly dissolves into the silent  
forests of his youth.

His breath puffs out white and cloudy, and if he closed   
his eyes he knows he might feel the smallest clean   
crystal of snow landing on his cheek.

But this is Alex, so his eyes remain open and battered   
with this alley, this brick, this brushstroke...

And when he reaches out to touch it, the darkness is   
warm and alive, a delicate membrane separating him   
from... what?

He grins once, bright and sharp, and dives through.

And finds himself face to flesh with an angry mob.   
Alex shrinks back instinctively, but after a heartbeat   
he revises angry to 'ecstatic.' The floor is thumping,   
nearly mobile beneath his feet. The air is thick with   
so much human musk and sweet, sweet smoke as to   
make a man faint. It's so hot he can already feel the   
thin t-shirt beneath his jacket mold itself to his back. 

The darkness is rent only by the sweeping flash of   
cheap, gaudy spotlights.

"Who are you supposed to be, sweetheart? James Dean?"  
The voice is low and rough, the lashes relentlessly fake.   
The sweep of his switchblade across the soft belly is  
fast and steady -- the man won't feel it until his pants   
are soaked with blood.

And then he pushes through the muscle, fat, and bone   
of a dozen strangers and finds himself fully on the   
dance floor and fully fifteen degrees hotter. The knife   
is dropped into the baggy jeans of one man, the jacket   
falls forgotten to the floor. 

He has others.

Alex has to fight a little to stay within the ragged   
confines of the dance but all of a sudden the music   
shifts, the crowd shifts, and he's being *propelled* into   
the seemingly endless crush of bodies. Height means   
nothing here -- the air is too poor for Alex to see past   
the bodies.

Suddenly, he's not too sure that he hasn't shredded   
another membrane and is not now trapped in hot,   
living, moving meat --

And the thought is only encouraged by the powerful   
arm that snakes around his waist and *yanks* him   
back against something a *lot* bigger than he is and  
holds him there. He brings his arms up to cup the   
monster's head just long enough for a snap and   
immediately has two fingers on his left hand sucked   
into an aggressively hot mouth for his trouble.

Alex laughs and snakes his body once, twice against   
that of his captor -- already rock hard for Christ   
knows how long and then pushes back with his upper   
body, slow and in deliberate contempt for the crystal  
meth pulse of the music. 

The invitation is accepted before he can even   
congratulate himself for the perfection of the move   
and a dark hand molds itself to his pec and slips down  
his t-shirt, down and damp and rough until the hand   
catches him where he needs it and squeezes and squeezes --

Alex breaks away as gently as he can and tosses a   
smile over his shoulder... even though he's sure it's  
intended recipient would never see it through this   
crush. 

Crush.

A bony-hipped beauty with eyes he wants to steal   
sidles up and throws her arms loosely around his   
throat and proceeds to demonstrate her distinct   
lack of lower vertebrae. Alex hasn't been that flexible   
since back when he wasn't sure why he should be   
that flexible. 

He gives up on out-finessing the woman and brings  
his hands down to her ass. Yanks her in close and   
finds long, long legs wrapped around his waist and   
spends the next several minutes just... *experiencing*  
her.

She uses him like the dollar-ride in a C&W bar and   
then slides off into the arms of someone he can't   
really see at all. The air... Alex crouches down low for   
a few precious gulps of oxygen and feels three entirely  
different feet impact with his ribs before he's back up   
again.

And the rhythm this time makes the inside of his   
head thrum like a tuning fork and his rib-cage turn   
and sway just beneath his skin and oh *yeah* he's   
finally starting to feel this and he closes his eyes and   
moves and moves and moves and he isn't at all   
surprised to hear -- *feel* the music getting   
impossibly loud.

A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face and he  
grins to himself at the thought of it being blood. This  
is gonna hurt tomorrow. This hurts right now but...   
*fuck it*.

And when he opens his eyes again he's looking into   
his own smile, his own thoughts. 

In blue.

A wider look finds him now ostensibly dancing with a   
lean-wired man his own height, perhaps his own age.   
The spots paint the sweated-down hair a dozen   
different colors as they pass -- blond then.

Sharp little cheekbones, red little mouth.

Fuck me smile.

And then the man closes his eyes and tilts his throat  
back and Alex moves in, stalks in and buries his face   
in taut sweaty skin and breathes in and then they're   
molded together, ankle-holsters clash but Alex smiles  
broad and shameless against his prize.

Strong hands cup over his hips and Alex is moved to   
the music as it's shaped by this dangerous little   
surprise of a man. Moved and pushed and pulled until  
they're in perfect synch, an elegance of movement far   
too delicate for whatever place this is but utterly   
irresistible.

Alex laps at the man's neck and tastes salt and   
acid-fatigue. They slow with the music and Alex can   
feel the other man's thigh tremble with exhaustion.   
He pulls back just far enough to see his eyes again   
and for a moment sees nothing but the ash of some  
long frustration. 

"Call me Ray." Mouthed into the chaos.

And then the bass pounds in again and the tremble   
might as well have been an illusion because Ray's got  
them back up to speed and thrusting, thrusting,   
thrusting and Alex throws his head back and laughs,   
knowing the wall of sound would turn his expression   
into a silent scream for anyone watching.

He won't be alone tonight.

End.


End file.
